


As long as you're with me, you'll be just fine

by flylow



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, dancing and softness, theoretical ep 8 clownery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23834083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flylow/pseuds/flylow
Summary: Inspired by S3E08's title.Written before E03's release.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 6
Kudos: 113





	As long as you're with me, you'll be just fine

**Author's Note:**

> Super quick thing I wrote to get some ~feelings~ out

Eve hadn’t seen her yet, and for a moment, a part of Villanelle was scared that she would. The ghost of the bruise over her eye, though, the memory of Eve knocking the breath from her, gave her courage enough to cross the ballroom floor. And when Eve’s eyes met hers, she froze, wondering how Eve might chose to touch her his time — if she’d touch her at all.

Bodies dancing, spinning about and between them cut her view of Eve off into snippets, like frames of a film reel cut apart and played at half-speed. She’d never been so impatient, so nervous to close the distance, because Eve hadn’t turned her back on her yet. Maybe she wouldn’t turn her back at all.

Villanelle choked that thought back before the little hope she constantly fought to squash could resurface from the space between her lungs.

She waited. She had to, for this to work.

When Eve was close enough to touch, Villanelle remembered several things. She remembered the cold of a knife slipped below her navel, and the warmth of blood spreading beneath Eve’s hands pressed to the gape in her belly. She remembered a fire axe, the flexion of an arm, a hot splash against her cheek, and the rush of breath that followed. She remembered a grimy London bus, hands close enough to kill, and lips near enough to kiss.

When Eve smiled— so far off from the Eve who’d served her microwaved shepherd’s pie, who’d pointed a gun at her in a tea room in Moscow, who’d thought Villanelle might slit her throat in Rome — the uncertainty it rattled through Villanelle’s bones made her realize how much _she_ had changed, too.

Why was it so easy for Eve to make her cry? In a hotel in Amsterdam, in the ruins of Rome, in a Spanish villa, and now, on a ballroom floor in —

“Hi,” Eve said, soft.

“Hi,” Villanelle said back, and it was a small thing, barely audible. She cleared her throat, looked around without really seeing anyone in the room — no one but Eve — and met Eve’s eyes again only once she felt confident she could keep tears from spilling. “You came.”

“Yeah, well…”

Villanelle thought Eve was going to elaborate, to tell her about Carolyn, and everything else, and explain the decisions that had led her here, but she didn’t. Eve reached out her hand, and Villanelle took it in hers.

The touch brought her back to earth, and her mind cleared for the first time since she’d thought she’d been left alone again. The little hope in her chest grew, and this time, she didn’t stop it. It climbed up her throat and swam to the front of her mouth, pressed against the back of her lips.

“You’ll dance with me for a bit?” Villanelle asked. She linked their fingers.

“Just for a bit?” It was teasing, but it was a question, too.

“For as long as you want,” Villanelle answered too quickly.

Eve hummed. She took a step closer so that they stood chest to chest, and stayed there. Villanelle squeezed her hand. She bent her head and dared smell Eve’s hair where it curled over her ear — picked up traces of store-brand shampoo, no perfume, because _of course_ — and all the while thought she’d never held something so precious, had never been so careful with anything in her life.

“I’m sorry,” Eve said. “About everything. About Kon—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

She and Eve stood hand in hand in a corner of the room, an island away from everyone else. Villanelle didn’t mind, not when Eve reached to brush her hair away from her face. She closed her eyes, as though doing so might help her commit to memory the feel of fingertips skimmed against her cheek, and leaned into Eve’s touch for longer than she could say.

When she opened her eyes again, she caught something in Eve’s gaze that swam hastily away as soon as it’d been found out. Sad, almost — but not pitying. It made Villanelle warm. It made her want to smile and put her lips to Eve’s ear and tell her a hundred soft things, things she’d kept only for Eve, things that would make her blush — things that would have made the old Eve push her away, but that would make _this_ Eve pull her in.

She bit her tongue and settled instead for taking two steps back without stretching the distance between them. Eve followed her towards the center of the dance floor, but made no move to hold her yet.

“Are you leading or am I?” Eve asked, and it was the first time since they’d seen each other that night that she looked anywhere near uncertain.

Villanelle took her hand, the one she’d been holding, and guided it to her side.

“I trust you,” she said, and at that, Eve reached the rest of the way to hold her at the waist. Then, she let her touch travel to the small of Villanelle’s back, and brought them closer still.

She waited with her head tucked close against Eve’s neck as they danced. She waited with her hands in her hair. She waited with a loose handle on the excited buzz that Eve worked through her every time her hands wandered to her hips. She waited for Eve to decide.

When Eve held her face, and when she felt Eve’s breath against her mouth, Villanelle waited for Eve to press their lips together. And she knew that this was the only way it ever could have been.

The initiation was the symbolic part, the important part — Villanelle told herself this as Eve kissed her, wetter this time, and unraveled her self-control. Her hands found Eve’s hair again, her touches greedy and wanting.

Dasha was stupid to tell her things like this couldn’t work. Maybe they didn’t work for Dasha, but surely they could work for Villanelle. She could fuck Eve, but she could love her, too, and they could have date nights, and normal stuff, and they could watch movies together, and always be there for each other when everybody else had gone.

When Eve slipped her tongue into her mouth, Villanelle gasped, so shaky and breathy that it sounded closer to a sigh than anything else. Eve sucked at her lower lip and took it gently between her teeth, and made Villanelle forget most everything for a moment. But she remembered enough to pull Eve in gently by the hips, to just barely slot their thighs together —a suggestion for later.

The sound Eve made at that was low and pretty and much better than Villanelle could have ever imagined. It made her heart hurt. And when Eve dotted kisses along her jaw, down to her neck — butterfly light at first, then growing open and tender — Villanelle finally let go of the weight in her chest.

Eve was too much, had always been too much, in the best possible way. With every press of her lips against her skin, Villanelle knew that she wasn’t just saying, _“I love you”_. She was saying as much and more — _“I love you, I choose you, and I will always choose you. I will choose you before I ever choose anyone else ever again.”_

Villanelle couldn’t help but let tears down her cheeks with Eve’s mouth pressed to her pulse.

“We will look after each other,” she said, an echo of something said months ago. It came out unsteady, not the way she’d expected, and Eve pulled away to look at her. “And I will listen.” Eve kissed her on the cheek. “And I will wait however long you like—” And then on the mouth.

“Okay,” Eve said, and Villanelle knew that she believed her.


End file.
